


What Comes Next - Part I/V

by Persephone



Series: Willing to Take the Risk [26]
Category: Valentine's Day (2010)
Genre: Angst, Canon Gay Character, Canon Gay Relationship, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:00:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22879900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persephone/pseuds/Persephone
Summary: Holden has finished telling "his story." Sean wakes the morning after. And it's six weeks to the wedding of the decade.PSA - I'M NOW ON WATTPAD: https://www.wattpad.com/user/PersephAlex
Relationships: Sean Jackson/Holden Wilson
Series: Willing to Take the Risk [26]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/12943
Comments: 5
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dearest Reader, I cannot convey my gratitude in you sticking with me as I finally complete this story that I love so much. Special thanks to Holden Wilson for his patience and understanding. 😅

The sliding doors on either side of his bedroom were open and he was alone in bed. Normally he slept on his back. Or when with his sweetheart, on his stomach with his arm around him and his face buried in his neck so he could breath his scent. Breathe him and pass into the ecstasy of a messy, wet half-dream. Or into the furnace of a hot one. Or into a dream so warm and cozy, it would leave his heart permanently scalded.

Tonight he was neither on his back nor on stomach. This time he slept on his side, his arm around his own waist. Holding himself. His eyes were closed and his head tucked deep, his beard brushing his own shoulder. He wasn’t asleep, though it had to be two a.m., easy. Just prone. Waiting for his ache to ease, and it was refusing to. Almost, he could hear it laughing, _I told you so. . ._

He said nothing, did nothing. He had asked to know. Therefore he’d find a way to deal, even if the answers were so much more profound than he had anticipated. Tried of thinking, about his mistakes or questioning his decisions, he was trying to empty his mind enough for sleep. But memories kept defying him, came waltzing through anyway.

Memories of the second time he sat across from Holden Wilson on the bluffs in the Palisades—the most beautiful man he had ever seen, looking anywhere but at him. The vibe of dismissal, of confusion, and then the astonishing moment when Holden looked directly at him. Right into his eyes, and all but told him to stop acting like a teenager who’d just discovered dating.

They were in love, those blue eyes, themselves unknowing, scolded. Couldn’t he see? So why the pointless gauntlet when everything from there would be just boilerplate. Routine negotiations with their hearts and minds and the rest of their lives.

Breezes wafting, playing with hair he suspected had more good news in store for him. Delicious waffles only half-eaten. Conversation so seductive he still blushed remembering, yet with contents hardly worth recalling. And eyes and hearts joyously, rebelliously, celebrating it all.

From there it would be nothing but happiness, those eyes had promised, and delivered. A life of specialness and sweetness. Of intimate understanding. Feelings so beautiful and surreal that coming out in the NFL had seemed a locker room bet in comparison to forever losing him.

But even then. Even then hadn’t there always been . . . other feelings as well? Things telling him, circumstances showing him, consistently showing him, that it was all too good. So how could it be true?

How often had he lain right there watching him sleep and known he was putting off the inevitable. Woken from sleep so many mornings grappling with a sense of dread. _It’s being in the closet._ How often had he told himself that? The problem between them, the reason for Holden’s constant misbehavior, was because _he_ lacked courage. How could he expect someone like Holden to live in his restricted world? It was too difficult for Holden and outright selfish of him. That, and that alone, was the explanation for his dread.

But even then, he had known that to be the explanation and not the problem itself. Getting out of bed mornings and knowing the pain in his heart to be something else. Reality trying to poke through. Trying and being blocked by his lack of a particular type of courage. One deeper even than the kind it took to publicly come out.

While in Johnston he had acknowledged something fundamental about himself and which Allison had further distilled—as foolish as it sounded, he believed in true love. And, Allison had told him, he had waited for Holden. He believed that too. But because of it he had lacked the courage to look his situation in its blue eyes and call it what it was. Because of it, he had ignored Holden’s indiscretions.

Because what partner wouldn’t want to know? Demand that he stop it. That it was him or nothing and fuck being closeted. If he loved him he would understand. If he meant more to him than a physique he loved and a tolerant presence in his life, a warm body to arouse him and make him laugh and forget his emotionally empty love life for weeks at a time, he’d be with him on every step of this journey. And when they fought he would go back to the Westside and sulk, like he did, hurt like he did, until it got so unbearable that they’d have to be together again. That was normal. Not walking out again and again to sabotage their love.

But it had been easier to believe he was the problem.

Because . . . otherwise . . .

Taking a long, slow breath, he tried again to ease his thoughts. There was no need to think through everything at once. He’d stand a better chance of knowing how to deal if he took it one step at a time, as with any play. _But finish the thought,_ his mind returned. _There’s no more hiding from anything._

Because otherwise, it would have all been a lie.

All of it. From that afternoon on the bluffs to the present night, he would have merely been living inside the dream he was having with his arm so desperately around him. Three years long, and believing he had somehow done it—succeeded in achieving everything he’d kept himself for . . . and vanquishing those he’d chosen to escape from. With Holden as proof of his success: a perfect validation of the choices he’d made in life. Only to wake into reality again. Except this time harsher because he had dared to believe.

Love, trust, and intimate understanding— would have all been a lie.

And all the men in his world would have been the same.

Not possible.

But on and on his thoughts played. And what could he do, he let them, until like a rookie running for passes until joy ran out, or a kind enough coach beckoned him sideline and encouraged him to pace himself, his thoughts finally exhausted themselves. Allowing quietude to come.

And it did. Bringing with it peace. And peace was nice. Like an old friend he’d forgotten he had. A heated stone against his heart.

Hours later, he was on his back staring up at the ceiling, not sure he’d slept at all. Sea breezes still swirled over him, warmer now because it was daylight. Lovely sensations. Continually wrapping him in the choices he had made.

Many choices. But none so consequential, he supposed now, as the one to live in LA and not in San Diego. It would forever remain a messed up thing that purely personal choice had been considered . . . radical. A refutation of the powers that be. But so a simple decision of where to live had been received. By teammates, by management. By owners. All because he had dared to leave those dark waters for a person life he could call his own—away from strings and control. Away from debilitating emotional _ownership._

And episode in his life he hadn’t thought of in years. Not since making the move itself up to LA, only too relieved to put behind him the silent squall it had caused. But for a few days now, it had been taking center stage in his thoughts.

An escape, as it turned out, from the boiling pot straight into the fire.

At that thought, even in his self-pitying state, he almost laughed at himself, at his predicament. Holden Wilson as fire?

Definitely.

But those were thoughts for another day. Plays for a different quarter and not this one in which he couldn’t seem to find his footing. Cold hard truth had only finally reached him last night and not having dealt with that, he didn’t have the strength for much else. Besides, Wil Jackson’s book of wisdom dictated that tacking the big ones was always better done upright and with a good breakfast in you.

 _So get outta bed, Jackson,_ he now heard. Rendered, helpfully, in the no-bullshit tones of Davey Jones. _And face whatever’s next._

Which was how, the morning after Holden finished telling him his side of their story, he was able to get out of bed. Late. So late that at 8am he’d be kicking up more than stress on that hot summer sand.

But get up he did. And, for then, simply went for a run.

—

“Hiya, Sean.”

It was Alastair Wilson, cheerful on the other end of a missed call he’d returned from his run to find. Showered and fed, and awaiting a call from Kara, he was at his dining table unzipping the oversized portfolio containing the revised Patek Philippe campaign artwork. His only surviving photoshoot in the summer of his wedding, Kara having successfully pushed the rest into August. At which time, he was sure, the coaches would take their turns at grumbling at the overlap with his training camp schedule.

“How are ya? How’re you holding up?”

“Pretty good, Al. Yourself?”

“Can’t complain. Just putting the finishing touches on your wedding presents.”

Pausing in extracting the Photoshop paintings, he wondered whether he’d misheard. Alastair couldn’t have forgotten that they were only taking gifts for charity. Not when he and Cecelia was responsible for the registry.

“I didn’t forget you’re not taking personal gifts,” Alastair said. “But my son is getting married. So you’re getting gifts. Both of you.”

Somehow, he didn’t snort. At least not into the phone. “Well, you’re the pops, so what you say goes.”

Alastair laughed a little. “And I’ve met your pops, so I know you know what you’re talking about.

He just shook his head. God help them all. “Well, thank you, Al. Worse case, I’m sure we can find storage until Holden says we can accept them.” At which time, hopefully, his head would still be attached, since it certainly wasn’t going to be Alastair breaking that particular news.

“Excellent thinking, Sean. You’re a winner.”

Was he? So. Alastair sounded . . . upbeat. Not at all like the man who in a deeply disported state—a state he hadn’t been able to decipher—had summoned him for instructions on how to proceed with his son. Thus initiating possible the worst consecutive weeks of his life. Neither, for that matter, did Alastair sound like a man awaiting the results of that assignment. Results which were still very much hanging. 

In fact, had he not been present and the very focus of that grim meeting, he might have even fallen for the forced cheerfulness.

“So, main reason I’m calling. How’s your weekend looking? You got Sunday free?”

“As a matter of fact,” he said slowly, instinctually knowing he was listening to a deadline of some kind. “I do.”

“Great. Ce’s planning an afternoon and we want you both there. It’s nothing, just a lunch or something.”

A beat passed before he could speak.

“Sounds good.”

“Great, great. Should be fun. Come wearing your fun hat, Sean.”

He did snort, and thankfully it sufficed as amusement to both of them. And then, there followed a soft, but pronounced, silence. And he wondered what Alastair really wanted to say.

“One last thing,” Alastair said instead. As casually as you pleased, with even a tinge of laughter to sell it. “You . . . wouldn’t happen to have seen my son anywhere recently, would you?”

He took another second.

“Any particular reason you’re asking?”

“No, not really . . .”

And then he instantly felt bad. Alastair wasn’t calling him about last night or the past weeks. By now he was conversant in Alastair’s sideways approach to this new reality in his son’s life—of having to cede first position on Holden’s path to someone else entirely. He’d been so caught up in his own problems he hadn’t stopped to wonder what Holden’s reaction might have been to Alastair's intrusion into their lives. It couldn’t have been good. But rather than belligerence or entitlement, this was Alastair continuing on the path _he’d_ urged him on—to have patience and let Holden lead the way.

There was no need to be unkind.

“I just meant,” Alastair said quietly, quickly. “Perhaps you’d seen or spoken with him this morning.”

“Well, lemme see,” he answered lightly. “Haven’t spoken to him, and as far as seen him . . . Let’s see, he’s not in my kitchen, woulda heard the audio-guided search for ground sugar. Not seeing him in the living room either, quiet in there too, no furniture getting destroyed by accident. But seeing as it’s early morning on a weekday, I’m gonna wager he’s at work. So God help ‘em there.”

Alastair was laughing. Sounding looser. “When you see him, tell him his old man said hi, okay?”

Ah. There was his answer. Sounded like Holden was back to completely blanking Alastair. That cryptic iPhone was probably being deployed somewhere. All that progress from Ben Hanan’s boat, through the prenup mess, to Holden’s second trip back to Johnston and Holden returning in a more favorable state, erased. And with just weeks to their wedding.

“I’ll do that, Al.”

“Thanks, Sean. Talk later.”

Setting his phone on the dining table, he finished opening up the portfolio, laying out in twos and threes the six images comprising the revised Patek Philippe campaign. The campaign he had been trying, unsuccessfully, for weeks, to bring up to Holden.

Standing by his dining table, he stared down at the paintings. _Right . . ._ he thought, no longer mystified by how he felt. All that hesitancy to show things he loved so much, yet unable to say why. Well, now he knew why. Now he _saw_ why.

Just then, his phone buzzed. It was Kara.


	2. Chapter 2

Kara was going over his updated schedule for the remainder of his offseason. Updated now to accommodate the photoshoot for the very campaign he was looking at. Intent on giving her his full attention, he’d sat next to the artwork, meaning to look at them after their phone call. Dreading the life out of what he had to do. And do it all the way to the very end.

But he was still looking at the artwork, a fresh thought having occurred to him. That it was really where Holden’s story ended that their story began. And that surprised him.

“Sean?”

“Listening.”

“Okay, you went really quiet there for a second. Anyway—”

She continued. Diligently checking off dates for the stages of the campaign from shoot to launch. A shoot for which she’d since stopped asking whether to take Holden’s calendar into account in scheduling. Same way she’d circumvented trying to get his approval to greenlight the campaign in the first place, before the offseason ended and he found himself in breach of his contract, by having Paula do it. Responsible him, huh.

With his continued silence on Holden’s participation, he was assuming the ad agency would be going with a model after all. He didn’t correct them on that. Or on anything to do with the campaign for that matter, since he couldn’t correct on what he wasn’t sure of. And of this, he was certainly no longer.

Kara, however, was now a happy camper. His Oprah interview—his big, career highlight interview she kept telling him in a severely misguided effort to excite him—was next week, and last-round preps were bang on schedule for Monday morning, with reps from the various organizations there to save him from fucking up in the hot seat. She didn’t say that last part, but he got the idea.

She also didn’t say, though he was pretty sure she was thinking it, that she assumed Holden was coaching him all the way into Oprah’s guest chair. Based on her remarks on all those toned and filtered images Davey and it seemed everyone in Johnston had been flooding the internet with, which she seemed to think Holden had orchestrated for their image as a couple, and the strike back Holden had overseen during the FRC fight. Then there was her jittery reaction to the Forbes publication, and so on. But again, no correction or input from him on any of it. Better his reps believe he was getting more media oriented and save himself a ton of publicity related evasive maneuvering.

But after Oprah was June, and blocking time for the photoshoot in the month of his wedding had been greying her hair. Solved by Paula’s intervention. So as of that morning’s scheduling, he was all set to be looking at wardrobe and props, and getting smiled at by Holden lookalike models, as early as next week. “God willing,” she’d fervently added. As intense as his niece Gatorade-drunk at a high school football game.

And call him trifling but he was getting a perverse pleasure from all this stressing over rescheduling. For his entire career his offseason had been subservient to the whims of sponsors and myriad contractual obligations. To see them scrambling now because he, Sean Jackson, was getting _married . . ._ Well, he was having to repress a smile.

“You have no idea what a relief it is locking all this down,” she said, clacking away on her keyboard.

“Glad to hear it.”

“I’m ignoring the tone.”

He just smiled.

“Are ya hitting the weights? You gotta be showing some muscle for that photoshoot.”

“No doubt. Paula’ll be watching with binoculars from her office. So yeah, doing my part.”

Kara chuckled.

And staying on happier, easier topics, “Got your dress?”

“Yes!” she cried, triumphant, not even needing a frame of reference.

“Is it chiffon?”

“It totally is, and I still don’t know how you could have guessed, but it is perfect and do I mean perfect.”

“Got flowers on it?”

The clacking slowed. “How do you know that?”

“Wait for it. Shade of blue, powdery if you got lucky. Pale yellow flower print, maybe white as a possible fallback.”

She’d gone dead silent. “It’s not actually possible for you to have guessed that. Moore told you.”

“Nope.”

“Bullshit.”

He smirked. “You don’t think I’m talented or something? Guess that’s why you’re not in agency.”

“Is it knee length or floor length?” she asked frantically.

Making him shake his head. An evening event, with her concerns over fitting in with all the rich people Getty Images stuff. The question alone. “Floor length.”

“Sean, there is no way you could have figured that out!”

“You want me to tell you it’s waisted?”

“What! No! How do you even know what waisted is?”

Somehow he wasn’t laughing. That had been a lucky guess. And not even a sharp one. Aside from the basic fact that their colors were in fact cornflower blue and that pale gold Soirée had proprietarily named “morning wheatsong,” everything she wore was cinched at the waist. And once she got past her all consuming fear of sticking out among the designer-clothed rich like a poor country cousin, as she’d lamented, she’d snap out of it and assure him he wasn’t psychic. The pragmatism he happily gave her a percentage for.

“Maybe when I retire I'll take your job.”

A hard exhale and that pragmatism arrived. “I don’t think so. Okay, so Thursday 10 a.m. you’re on the Paramount Studios lot. We’re meeting Dahlia and the production crew, and whatever start date she gives us for the shoot, we’re saying yes. Yes?”

“Thursday?”

“Just say yes, Sean,” she groaned. “I just explained to you I had to rearrange your entire schedule for the rest of the offseason. I only wish the shoot could be sooner, but we can’t move final preps for Oprah.”

Oh, God forbid . . .

“No, I get, it’s just . . . you don’t think I’ll need a couple days’ recovery after getting back from Chicago? You know, after . . . all that?”

“All what? Sean, you can literally run a marathon. How’re a few meetings, an interview and a three-hour private flight going to shatter you?”

Well, it was promising to entail more than that, mentally speaking . . .

“You know, I like to think one day you’ll appreciate what I do for you,” she said. “Meantime, do I have your yes?”

He killed a sigh. Didn’t have to look at the artwork next to him.

“Sean, are ya there?”

“Kar, this stuff with Oprah. I’ve been going over prep questions and . . . she’s gonna ask questions about Holden, isn’t she? And you’re saying we can’t get rid of those?”

“Are you kidding? It’s the very reason she’s having you on her show. Because you came out to openly be with Holden. How’s she not going to ask about that? So no, we can’t get rid of them.” Then sudden silence. “Are you nervous or something?”

“Uh . . . yeah?”

“Well, don’t look at me,” she said, already sounding panicked as if he had. “I’d rather throw myself into a lion’s den than go answer questions about my personal life. And in front of millions? Put me in a gazelle suit before those lions first.”

_Ah, Jesus . . ._

“Sean, you’d better _be_ ready. This isn’t Howard’s interview. No one’s gonna let you slide with jokes. She’s gonna want to know deep life stuff, and while I could have helped, your standing instructions in my contract are that you want no professional presentation of your personal life. My hands are tied.”

Slowly scratching a finger through his beard, he said nothing. Just listened to the tones which were it not for Kara’s purity of heart, he would have labeled _cutting._

More distant, hurried clacking. That scheduling software was getting more emotional support than him.

“Oh, and lastly. You’re all set for Mark Hawthorne on Monday. They confirmed this morning.”

Killing a sigh, he likewise killed any comment. The players’ association sending its rep to feel him out on what he was going to tell Oprah about being gay in the league. No one found that obnoxious. 

“Are we good?”

“Yeah, I guess . . .”

“Great. Thanks. Bye.”

She disconnected.

Lowering his phone, he first checked that it was on Do Not Disturb before setting it down beside him, next to the images. He then sat staring out at the cool blue ocean and did nothing for a long time. Didn’t think, just watched the surf. No more wanting to do _what came next_ than he wanted to pour actual dirt on the images.

That night in Johnston after their fight and reconciliation, lying in a hotel room like a stranger in his own hometown, evening and snow outside and the love of his life on his back like a sentient, possessive blanket, while he had told Holden as much about his pain as he could at the time, Holden too had talked as openly as he’d ever heard him. About his upbringing, how it had made him think only in hyperrealistic terms. Particularly where men were concerned. As any other way spelt disaster for himself and his family. How through actions and associations, but most especially stark words, Alastair had taught him to maintain a cool head at all times. Consider the messy ending if he didn’t first take the time to put in place a clean beginning. And how, finally, it had conditioned him to shut himself off from things like magic and enchantment with a partner. Exactly the things, Holden said, he’d experienced waking up in his house.

He’d felt sorry for Holden. But turning, so Holden could kiss his mouth, his burning face, lay enough small, warm kisses on him to make the pretty snowflakes outside seem like they didn’t know their jobs, he’d said little to contradict Holden.

Contrary to what Holden tended to believe, being a romantic, whatever that meant, didn’t render him mindless. He knew what Holden was talking about. Maybe not to the degree of Holden’s life experience, but he knew that Holden wasn’t a cynic. Or imagining things. He understood about enchantment. It was his house, quite deliberately chosen to escape a world that _was_ painfully cynical and in which he no longer wished to live. And while he loved his space, loved Malibu, he nonetheless couldn’t remember ever walking around thinking there was magic here. Not until Holden had been in his bed and he’d had to leave him for a simple morning run.

But this morning, _he_ was going to have to be the hyperrealistic one. Consider not only the very real possibility of a messy ending, but also the simple fact that there had never been a clean beginning at all. Unsentimentally, enough to make not just Alastair, but the few others, thoughts of whom had been taking center stage lately, feel vindicated.

It was why he was sitting there coddling feelings that had sustained him for so many years. And had broken all barriers. Feelings of specialness and sweetness. Of intimate understanding.

Feelings that were, clearly now, all lies.

He needed to get on with this.

Turning now, he took in the images. All six of them. Visually tracing the digital brushstrokes that were meant to be Holden Wilson. Swatches of browns and blues and creams; an emotionally warm motif for brown hair, blue eyes, and that persistently pale complexion.

Weeks later, he could still marvel at what that Dahlia executive had done. How she had gone deep inside him to capture things he himself hadn’t fully understood, to produce results that were essentially no more than professional versions of the internet “fanart” Holden occasionally showed him, but which had gotten such a puzzling hold on his heart. And likely contributing to why he had never shown Holden the images, since Holden would probably have immediately been all in, without deeper thought as to why the campaign held such appeal for them.

But last night it had come to him. He’d only been missing the pieces Holden had finally filled in.

The images _were_ fantasy—scenarios from an artist’s mind of the imagined spaces in which he and Holden lived. Shared moments of doing things they actually never did in real life—watching a football game together in the skybox; sharing a private moment alone in a locker room, a large gear-duffle improbably slung on Holden’s shoulder; in Holden’s office together, Holden sitting on the edge of his desk reading a sheaf of papers and him at the glass walls on the phone, viewing the city. And so on.

Complete, and frankly unremarkable fiction. 

And so on. Complete and, really, unremarkable fiction. Yet he had been bewitched. Seeing the duffle as containing his gear and the sheaf of papers in Holden’s hands as his Chargers contract. Nowhere in the notes or captions had it said anything like that, but he hadn’t needed to be told. Why was that so exciting, he’d kept wondering. Kept looking.

But now he saw what she had done. How she had taken the power dynamics underlying the NFL, disassembled, repackaged, and handed them back to him, on a canvas all his own. 

The skybox, for instance, was the holy grail. You were team captain and usually came from somewhere those owners hardly ever did, be it psychologically or actually. Taken right out of college or sometimes even sooner, now finding yourself in their powerful spaces. Sipping champagne on a church day and wondering how you got from where you’d been to where you were. At times feeling like a bought-over union boss.

But in her concepts she had shredded all that. In place of owners who made your stomach tighten, roil some weeks, she had offered deconstruction. Skybox emptied, all of them replaced by the man he loved. Who loved him back. And was possessed of the firm capacity, not to mention the desire, to take care of him. The artwork wished to make that clear. So in each Holden was presented as seated forward, standing possessively beside him, or as intensively attentive to him. Each instance boldly highlighted by the big, attention-grabbing, statement-making Harry Winston diamond engagement ring glittering like a brand on Holden’s finger, and like cold fire on the artwork.

Whether in the sky in the cabin of a private jet, on earth in a dim locker room, or in between in a skybox, they were always alone together, in an unspoken missing backdrop of the powerful men who ran the aggressively straight, masculine game.

Perfect, subversive fantasy. In all six, Holden in replacement of fear, worry, dread.

The campaign she’d initially come with had left him as excited as a slice of plain white bread somehow being the only thing left in his kitchen to eat. Even so he would have gone ahead with the campaign. Sponsorship stuff were all the same anyway, being whatever an ad executive viewed him across the table and assumed. Image, Kara had told him early in her representation of him, was just that and nothing more.

But in that meeting, that Dahlia executive must have seen something he couldn’t hide and Kara’s obfuscation couldn’t cloud. Something she’d chased him down to valet to get a closer sniff. Which was simply that after Johnston, after having retraced and reclaimed his childhood and maturity in ways so unexpected and in the one place he’d been so sure of, he would have struggled through another generic ad campaign drawn up for him.

After a career balancing _his_ kind of private life in the closet, what he had wanted—had _needed_ —was to plant a giant rainbow flag atop life’s Bradford Hill and declare himself fully arrived. With time running short, her move to rethink the campaign had been gutsy. But she had nailed it. And that she had used Holden as the vector was, to him anyway, what made the campaign so unexpectedly and understatedly brilliant.

It was a campaign about _intimacy._ About its power, its simple trust. Therefore not of some generic brand, but of his own in particular. Of the kind that had rescued him.

At this stage in his life, the campaign was, in a word, perfect.

Except . . . not even.

In the harsh light of day, it all fell apart like a cheap photoshoot set.

In light of everything Holden had told him, the best that could be said of the images was that Dahlia Higgins deserved an award for having invented a whole new category of fantasy. Because anyone with a sliver of knowledge about their actual relationship, never mind Holden’s ex-boyfriends, would laugh themselves sick looking at the things. Most already had without even having to see the things.

Oh, were the images meant to be merely symbolic? Well, then to truly capture each scene, there would have to be a small crowd of men arrayed around them at all times. In Holden’s office, in the locker room, even on the private jet. In each scene other men present and doing whatever they wished. Looking at him with cynical amusement, or at Holden with knowing eyes. Maybe in the skybox one while Holden was talking to him, one of them could be holding Holden’s hand under the chair. Whispering in Holden’s ear. _That_ would have made the images really pop. Really represent their life together.

Many more accurate ways to capture their _intimacy._

How had Forbes captioned it? _A secret, exclusive three-year relationship so powerful it changed NFL history._ Absurd. No wonder TMZ had felt triggered to strike back. The headline alone was shark bait, doubled down by that bleached laundry of its content. And patiently trailing him since last year, TMZ had certainly taken their time exposing it all—from the years involving all the different men, right through to the fact that Alastair and Cecelia Wilson weren’t exactly falling over themselves to welcome a professional football player into the family.

Intimacy? _Exclusivity?_ What a fucking joke.

Pressing a hand to the bridge of his nose, he released a long, calming breath.

Fuck this, he needed an Advil.

—

It was almost noon and the surf was coming in a little stronger. His morning errands had pushed themselves into the afternoon because he couldn’t seem to leave his dining area, never mind his house.

He had gotten himself that Advil, made himself some guava juice to chug it down. And was still standing in his dining room.

Returning from his kitchen’s medicine cabinet, he’d thought the images would somehow change, look different, less appealing now that he’d deciphered them. Or that demystified, he’d feel differently about their message. Of course not. The things still looked wonderful, beckoning him back into safe fantasies. He’d literally had to turn his back on them to not retreat from the rest of what he had to do. The assignment this time from doctor Markham.

He’d been the one to ask that Holden come clean. Not Elliot, Alastair, or even that grotesque TMZ article. He alone had made the decision that Holden shine a light into the dark corners of his mind. All those men haunting his footsteps, needing to be illuminated. He’d made the choice and told Markham that he wanted and was ready to understand Holden.

Could he, had been Markham’s sole caution, still feel the same way about Holden after hearing details of his past relationships? Some partners could not. And Markham, the military families separations specialist to whom Alastair had felt compelled to direct his son when things had started looking real, had not recommended it.

Well, the answer was yes. Holden had obliged—names, faces, even occupations. He had heard it all and felt no differently about Holden. He just didn’t. In fact with each passing hour he cared more about claiming Holden for himself than wanting any distance whatsoever between them. Not pretty, but true. 

And as for forgiveness, it was Holden’s without Holden having to ask for it. Because the truth was that they had been trying to break each other. No matter their difference in methods, or that Holden’s had been more effective, that had been the idea. He had banked on Holden’s emotional and physical weakness for him to keep Holden coming back, but evidently Alastair and Cecelia’s son had been more prepared than Anne and Wil Jackson’s. No amount of humbling failure erased the fact that they had been two people bent on conquest. Nor that he had lost.

In any event, it was over. The past—confessed, confronted, relived—was past.

But he didn’t understand him.

He . . . did not understand Holden.

He didn’t understand how Holden could have . . . _done_ all that. Not even in his worst moments of insecurity had he imagined the extent to which Holden had . . . _handled_ him. Broken their intimacy. And with so many other men? And to Holden it was just _dating?_ How?

From the night of KV’s party, at last getting out that bit of poison in his system, what he had seen so many years ago in front of Holden’s building, to that morning’s very difficult run, he had been trying to make sense of things he couldn’t fathom. He had failed. His mind simply didn’t work that way.

The entire point of the excruciating exercise, and he had come up empty-handed.

He had needed an anchor, and it had been those paintings. Serendipitously, the essence of their relationship made concrete. Figuring out his feelings for some ad campaign had given him clarity to do what Markham had then said he must. 

Which was, to see Holden not as he wished but as Holden really was.

And he had done that too.

Nothing in his life had so far proved more difficult. Holden was what his heart loved most in this world. In ways, four years in, he was only beginning to process. Love, it turned out, was a lot like a ballon. The more air you gave it, the bigger it got. And the bigger it got . . . well, the cuter and sweeter. But he had persevered. Done as Markham had instructed. It was how, six weeks to marriage, he was standing there with a question in his heart almost too painful to consider.

Simply that, if he didn’t understand Holden, then how could he, Sean Jackson, be the right person for him?

There were men out there who understood Holden without a need for explanation, no review or examination of actions necessary. Men who lived comfortably in Holden’s world, able to glide effortlessly through Cecelia’s mined cocktails without trepidation or a single misstep. Men who didn’t blink when Alastair talked of relationships like financial arrangements, or on seeing the man’s third wife, only a year younger than his son, pad out barefoot in a nonexistent negligee to whisper to him during lunch on the garden patio.

And that was just his side of things. On Holden’s side, was it fair for Holden to be cobbled to someone who didn’t understand him. Couldn’t even claim something as basic as that. Holden, like anyone else, deserve to be comfortable and happy in who he was. Doing the . . . things he enjoyed. With someone without a wish to change him because he found his core behaviors unfathomable.

Who wouldn’t lose his mind if . . . history repeated.

That too was a consideration. If he didn’t understand Holden, then he didn’t know what it would take for Holden to repeat this behavior. He believed when Holden said it was all in the past and would never happen again. Without question he believed him. But that was just wishful thinking on both their parts. That was trying to predict the future.

What happened when they were married and Holden got upset at him again. Or away for the season, Holden found he couldn’t stand it. For weeks or months talking on the phone and nothing else. At most a weekend meet-up or two in a sea of nothing. Then out of frustration, a need to be with him even, Holden sought a surrogate.

How the fuck would he cope.

Was going forward with Holden—for him, for them—ultimately, an enormous mistake?

No, of course it wasn’t. It was all he wanted.

Dipping his head, he pressed a hand to the bridge of his nose. His heart had escaped and was now pounding away like it was life or death. Jesus, he thought, almost laughing, was he really just trying to reason objectively and feeling like he was having a panic attack? Well, at least it was consistent with his life with Holden. His head wanting to have one clear thought and his heart stomping in to start a brawl.

He released a breath, sighing. Who was he kidding. What was all this even for, when even staying away from Holden long enough to finish a thought was making him physically ill. When his body hadn’t stopped its countdown to his departure for the season.

Slowly, he turned and moved back to his dining table, taking a seat and placing his empty glass juice next to his phone, which was next to the artwork, like chronicling his progress. Staring out at the water, he realized that the world seemed to have muted itself. So that the already quiet surf now moved like a silent, live wallpaper.

Good breakfast in him and more on less on his feet, his thoughts from waking that morning returned, taking center stage again. And he consider it now—everything, even acknowledging that he didn’t get Holden, in context of having moved to LA. Maybe he was feeling so roughed up emotionally because after nearly six years of holding tight to his principles and declaring his independence from a dark world, he really thought he had won. And Holden should absolutely have been his reward, instead he was discovering he had been living inside an illustrated fantasy. Maybe in a few days he wouldn’t feel like this. Wouldn’t hurt like this.

And frankly, if _he_ wasn’t right for Holden then who the fuck was. Those lightweights who did make an empty lifestyle of haunting Cecelia’s cocktails and Alastair’s exclusive clubs? The desperado who had cornered him at Holden’s parking spaces? Fucking _Darren?_

Closing his eyes for a moment, he told himself not to even go there.

He needed time, and answers. Instead he had none, and questions. Big ones, that Oprah was going to butter up and serve to anyone caring to tune in. Especially to her prime audience of two, Alastair and Cecelia Wilson. Whose interests, no question, she would bear in mind with the kinds of questions she asked. Already he’d been around these billionaire club people long enough to see how they protected each other. Hadn’t Holden been trying to make him understand all this time.

Somehow he really didn’t just start laughing at his ridiculous situation. He was having a problem where most people might not see any at all.

But Holden wasn’t a problem to be solved, he knew. Holden was a decision to be made.

Turning once more, he looked at the artwork. When Kara had told him last year that Oprah wanted to wait a year after his coming out to talk to him, despite his fervent wish that publicity over the whole thing end quickly, he’d known it made sense. He’d had no idea how much sense. Last year he would have been falling all over himself to give Oprah an earful about the power of love, how it was all you needed and all that. Exactly the kind of victory-dance rookie mistake she probably knew to skip.

Well, his year was up. In few days’ time he was expected to be comfortably seated and telling the love story of a lifetime. He really would have laughed had he the breath for it. As it was, he probably needed another Advil.

He took in the eerily perfect renderings of Holden’s smile and eyes. So after four years he had finally met Holden Wilson. And Holden was everything, and so much more, than he could have imagined. And nothing at all like he had expected.

So now what.


	3. Chapter 3

Craig Hollenthal was calling him.

Of course he was.

Circling the back of his Navigator on his way to the driver’s side, he closed the trunk as he passed between it and the farmer’s market cart. The market assistant, finished loading the purchases he’d finally left his house to acquire, looked in apparent surprise from his empty hands to the closed trunk. And then grinned at him. “I see now how you do those passes.”

Managing a pull of a smile, he fished for his wallet and a tip. Handing it over, the assistant thanked him, pocketing it, saying, “Hope to see you still getting your greens here after you get married.”

He cocked a brow. “They got greens on the Westside?”

The shop assistant laughed, nodding knowingly. “You say that now, but I too have a spouse, and they can be _awwwfully_ persuasive.”

Which did pull a real smile from him. Pushing the cart back toward the busy market, the assistant left him to continue his way to the driver’s side. Getting in, he sat forward and stared at the missed call. This wasn’t that big a surprise. Or, not a surprise at all. This was simply the way Alastair worked. 

With just six weeks to their American Royalty wedding, he should have been much farther along with their prince. Instead he had pretty much fucked up all the way, right up to semi-publicly losing his temper at a major philanthropy gala. The Wilson patrol had long circled the wagons, even if he was only now literally getting the call.

Undoubtedly they’d been keeping track and knew Holden had finished coming clean. And while Holden might wish to give him the space to figure out what going forward might entail, that was apparently Holden’s private business. And since they were in fact no longer a private couple, now the Wilson family’s gay son and heir marrying the first NFL player to come out of the closet, there were other priorities to consider. There was now a family name to protect.

Craig’s phone call, whatever for, would be the least of it.

Between now and Oprah, he had a lot of crap to wade through.

Starting up his Navigator, he took in the pretty blue skies and rustling palm trees as he pulled out of the farmer’s market parking lot. It was a truly beautiful summer. And he and Holden should have been having one for the storybooks.

—

Ev Nielsen, for some reason, was inviting him to dinner. Well, not for _some_ reason. For the obvious reason general counsel for his family’s office would be calling him just weeks to his wedding.

Still it was unexpected, and not a little disconcerting.

“I’ve already calendared your meetings to take Sean into Gradient,” his secretary Rachel was saying on speaker. “You’re all set to meet with Vanity Fair and the other editors.”

“And Cubierta?”

“Yes, them too,” she said, confirming that he wasn’t the thoughtless offspring his mother insisted him to be. He’d retained her PR firm in spite of everything. In spite of still being so incensed at his dad, quite aside from calling Sean in after the TMZ article, but for that hideous attempt at _advising_ him on his relationship with Sean. Trying to equate it with his own destructive relationship with his mother.

Yet here he was, retaining all the companies they had put in place because Sean, the son-in-law they didn’t want, had asked him to persist at family harmony.

“Vanity Fair has some wonderful ideas,” Rachel said, fondly.

“Do they,” he replied dryly. And then was squashing the images of his parents’ wedding the Vanity Fair editors had seen fit to bring to the last meeting. He was still having heart palpitations at the memory. As though they had tried to show him Tarot cards of his future. Even if he weren’t marrying Sean he would have scheduled any subsequent meetings with any guy he met off the street rather than do that alone again.

Point was, as Rachel was confirming, they were all set with Gradient. So why was Ev calling. And dinner? He couldn’t remember the last time with Ev.

But, seeing as he was having these thoughts while sitting on his living room balcony eating leftover delivery from Yamashiro, while looking out at a bright Los Angeles afternoon view he should only be seeing from this vantage point if it was a weekend or he were out sick from the office, and with neither being true, he probably shouldn’t be asking too many questions.

“Sure,” he said, resignedly. “Tell him sure.”

Rachel didn’t do her soft _tsking,_ but he heard it anyway.

He thanked her and listened to the call disconnect.

He had no plans for the evening anyway. He had canceled most of his social life until whenever Sean would get back to him, not caring to be at some event when Sean finally called and then having to make an excuse to vanish. Ev’s request was only rescheduling shopping with Elliot later that evening.

Working from home for the last couple of days, he’d spent the time half wanting to drown his phone so he couldn’t call Sean. In lieu of which he’d been haunting the spots Sean liked in his penthouse—the sunny living room balcony, the spa with its own potent memories, hence thoughts of drowning his phone, and the sofa with the cushion that so perfectly imbibed Sean’s scent. Finally just ordering food from Yamashiro.

Resuming poking his chopsticks at the nigiri, he wondered how Sean could eat teriyaki eel. It was just gross. But Sean loved the stuff, so here he was, having ordered it last night and now eating it for leftovers. Some stuff tasted better overnight. Not this.

Clipping another piece, he popped the chunk into his mouth and sat back, chewing and staring at the cityscape.

Whatever Ev was looking for on behalf of his family, he honestly didn’t even care. It didn’t even matter. Neither of his parents could do more harm to his relationship than he already had.

—

Stopped at the light, tapping his finger on his steering wheel, he was listening to Mike & Mike on ESPN Radio bullshitting and entertaining LA through another afternoon. His Bluetooth phone system purred to life with a call from Kara and he moved a finger over, tapped answer.

“Sean, slight alteration to your Monday schedule.”

“Now you’re just fucking with me.”

“Ha. Jim Liniker’s gonna be joining Mark Hawthorne for your meeting. That okay? If not, I can call Paula.”

Reality seemed to gently bounce at her words. So that she’d stopped talking, but her words continued reverberating.

“I’m sorry, what?” he asked quietly.

“It’s no big deal.”

It _was_ a big deal. She just didn’t know. Staring at the lit LCD screen with her name, he almost had to make sure the call was happing and he wasn’t just in a dream. Almost asking her what for, whether Liniker had said, he instead caught himself. There wasn’t anything odd about Jim Liniker joining the meeting. All he’d be doing was telegraphing inexplicably trepidation. And worrying Kara.

“Like I said, I can call Paula and we can—”

“It’s fine. It’s fine,” he repeated quickly. “It’s fine.”

“All right. All good. Thanks, bye.”

The call disconnected with a soft _bloop_ on his speakers. And as suddenly as the taunting flip of a playing card, patterned side to joker and back, he was sitting there wondering if he had imagined the call, and being flooded with a dark feeling of warning.

—

Jim Liniker was a name he hadn’t given a second thought to a very long time. Not because he didn’t hear it nearly daily during the season; even being out, avoiding interacting with the league’s owners’ rep on occasion would be impossible. More that he’d thought he had escaped that name. That world.

 _What the fuck,_ he thought, pulling into his driveway, parking, sitting there. Recoiling from the mere thought of being back in Liniker’s presence. Even if he was owner’s rep. A fact that by itself was laughably vile enough. But thinking that, he brought himself back down. That was all it was—Liniker being sent in an official capacity. He supposed he was just compounding irritation because the very idea of the meeting with Mark H was trying enough. As much as he appreciated Mark, having had his back throughout the FRC pressures, even to the point of Holden considering him an “ally”, Mark was nonetheless going to be presenting no less than the _concerns_ of the straight players’ association before the big interview. Which kind of mostly left him speechless at the audacity.

Liniker likewise would only be there to eyeball him for the powers in the league. Gauge whether he was champing to go publicly set fire to their protective machinery. He might have chosen to get out of that world, but he guessed they let him be as long as he didn’t go write a tell-all book about the noxious mechanisms of control over players like himself. Jim would likely maybe add a shaded word of two, nothing more.

Wrapping himself in those protective thoughts like voodoo charms against the malevolent, he gained a little peace of mind. And carting his groceries in, he told himself he was probably just being paranoid to begin with. The Oprah interview was a megawatt publicity moment and everyone was just piling on.

It was nothing.

So, done putting away his groceries and leaving his kitchen, he began looking for happier spaces. Checking his messages from Chicago. Not Oprah-related, per se. But kinda. He found some. 

Jonah Wright, twenty-four, Lions running back and BBQ organizer. Chicago native and “new-gen” closeted, if it could even be called that. Within a year of his coming out, he was seeing things that to him looked so obvious he wondered whether the public just really didn’t care anyone. Anyway, Jonah had them on some secure app under a bunch of nicknames. _Better not flake on us, X._ That one meant for him. _Chi-town flavors waiting on y’all heathens._

Smirking, he sent the group a thumbs-up, followed by a finger pointing to a bottle of hot sauce. More thumbs-ups followed from others, including a couple of clapbacks at the culinary diss. He was still reading, still enjoying replies, when an SMS came in from Craig.

Instructions for a dress code, and a pickup time that evening.

—

“Has he called?”

He shook his head.

“How do you feel?”

_Like 8 o’clock came faster than I was prepared for._

He looked at his hands, his stomach having tightened at the question.

He was trying _not_ to think. Or feel for that matter. How could he explain to Elliot the weird weakness he felt in his limbs when he thought of Sean. A weakness as the result of the slow poison he had for so long and so deliberately poured on his relationship, thinking he was being so sharp. So himself. And Sean alone in his house because of him. Sean who had wanted nothing more from the rest of this offseason than to cover himself in scented oils and have lots of sex in a jacuzzi. 

Or, slightly more panic inducing, try and explain that while thoughts of his wedding made him giddy with joy, at _marriage_ his stomach twisted so hard he stopped thinking altogether. Twisting not for any of the obvious reasons either.

There was something happening inside him. Something which stayed at the periphery of his vision, but when he turned to look at simply danced out of view. That thing that had started up the night on KV’s patio when he had started telling Sean his side of their story. Rather than dissipate with openness, it seemed to have solidified. Yet he couldn’t say what it was.

“Look,” Elliot said. They were both leaning against the hood of Elliot’s Jaguar, after valet had kindly let Elliot park to one side of the hotel’s driveway long enough to check on him. “I know you said . . . you did . . . some bad things. And it’s not that I question that. But I was there the entire time you two were carrying on your secret romance and I don’t even remember you doing anything noteworthy, talk less of bad. He’ll come around.”

He nodded. Elliot said nothing more, just remained quiet. And was staring at his face. “While you might be feeling bad, right now you look as fresh as a summer breeze. Old man Ev’s gonna have himself an eyeful.”

He laughed a little, pushing down any more amusement, not wanting to stroll into the hotel and have difficulty looking at Ev. His parents would have a field day with that.

Lifting his gaze, he looked around at the gleaming cars arriving and dropping off hotel and dinner guests, then at the golden evening cast by the setting sun, the soft breezes in the palms. “It’s been a really beautiful spring and summer, hasn’t it?”

Elliot looked sideways at him. “Of course it’s a beautiful summer. It’s the summer of your wedding.” Then, softly, “It was going to be your summer of finally shedding all your vanilla sex, wasn’t it? A summer of sexual odyssey and discovery?”

“I’m pretty sure I never told you anything like that.”

“You didn’t have to. At Elementals, he was purchasing enough oils to supply a harem. Don’t tell me it’s all for _aromatherapy._ ”

“I’m not tell you anything at all,” he pointed out.

Elliot wasn’t smiling, just looking intently at him. Then unhooking his sunglasses from his shirt, Elliot straightened from the hood. “I gotta run. Since you’re standing me up, I’m taking the opportunity to go see Alastair over a few things.”

Which stopped him dead in his tracks. But slipping on his sunglasses, Elliot cast him a cease and desist look. “H, you’re getting married and he’s your dad. I keep saying, just take it easy and we’ll all make it through in one piece.”

Elliot reached for the door handle while he reluctantly moved away from the Jaguar. “See ya,” he said, and Elliot raised a hand in farewell as he got in.

With a last look at the alluring evening, he started toward the hotel entrance.

—

At 8pm, a speedboat was idling in the waters a short distance from his house. Descending to the shore, he passed his neighbors Karen and Gia doing hot yoga on their living room patio. Stretched between two heat lamps, they waved slowly at him between deep breaths. Returning their waves, he was not at all surprised when Gia called out to him.

“Still waiting on that dinner with Holden, Sean.”

“Working on it.”

“Uh-huh.”

Shoving his hands back into his pockets, he continued down to the shore, already envying them their peaceful night.

Tonight’s invitation was optional Craig had said. 

_Uh-huh._

On leaving the art show a couple nights back, he’d kissed Holden for all watching eyes—the camera phones, the Instagram publicity account the Geffen Foundation administered on their behalf, which even Davey followed, but not least of all, the spying eyes on behalf of the Wilson family.

He’d told Holden he’d get back to him. Soon, he’d said while Holden stared so hard at him it had felt like a giant stone was being pushed against his throat. Soon, he’d promised so Holden would get enough presence of mind to back away and let him into the car. After which Holden had retreated to begin scrolling his phone as if in it lay an explanation for the kiss, coming after an all-night difficulty of even making eye contact.

He’d only meant to signal that there would be no need for drama. But of course there would be drama, and always the assumption that he was the cause. They probably shouldn’t have left in separate cars.

At the surf, he began wading out to the boat. Throughout the days and weeks, Craig had done nothing but keep his silent company.

Tonight, he supposed, that was all over.

—

Shortly after eight, they were seated in the main dining room of the Peninsula, and were just . . . talking. Their meal had also been served, so they were also eating, but so far he could decode no particular reason for him and Ev to be having dinner on a random Thursday evening. It couldn’t be any clearer that Ev was on an errand from his parents. Though to look for what exactly, he still wondered.

Either way he wished Ev success in uncovering something to report back, besides the obvious _Holden is possibly depressed, knowing that for the first time in his life your money and privilege can’t buy respect or understanding._ He wasn’t holding his breath. Past that, there was nothing left to see. Not even for Sean himself.

With whom, surprise, his thoughts were with at that moment.

While in the shower the following morning, he’d quite suddenly realize that Ev had attempted to engage him in conversation a couple times prior, and again around that time. “Is the salmon decent?” he’d suddenly remember Ev saying, while squeezing liquid soap into his palm, when they’d been looking at the menu. And at other points, “I quite like the sauces here.” He even remembered seeing Ev’s lips move. And he wondered, that following morning setting the bottle back on the shower shelf, what on earth Ev must have thought at his blank look.

But right then, while they sat across from each other, none of it had so much as registered. Ev not being much of a talker anyway, his attempts passed like the thinnest gauze while he went on sitting there with a wandering mind. Watching waitstaff, soft golden dinner lights, quietly talking diners.

The hotel’s main dining room was in the middle of a glass atrium, allowing for a continuous view with the gold-lit manicured gardens outside. Taking in the now silently shivering palms, he was seeing instead the breezy night of KV’s party. The opening night of this part of his life with Sean.

Maybe Sean was at the movies, he reasoned, as their dinners arrived. Like on the evening he’d freaked over Sean’s marriage proposal. Inside a darkened room watching a love story and so knowing to what weight to accord their own story. Which at the time should have been very little, considering that they had barely gotten started. Only now, after a full twelve-month slog, was he fully self-aware. Now able to say “I love you and I want to marry you,” all the way down to his core. Without ego or a frightened self weighing down each word, never mind his heart. Still he wanted to be that him again from a year ago—in Sean’s kitchen waiting for Sean to come back out into the light. Come home so he could wrap his arms around him and tell him he was so, so sorry. And for Sean to let him, and tell him he was already past it.

Or maybe Sean was in his kitchen, keeping it low-key. Cutting up vegetables for the week to put in those little containers he’d initially scrunched up his nose at thinking were snack packs, and worrying that it was what he was going to have to be eating now because he couldn’t walk away from a vegan, or whatever Sean was.

Sean could also simply be quietly reading at home. Doing whatever he could to not think about the things he had told him. Was there a second book to _Eat, Pray, Love_?

Wait, should he have read that book? Could it have helped him now?

But of course Sean was thinking about what he’d told him. Every word of it. He knew it because he knew what it had taken for Sean to ask in the first place. Their life together had reached a dead end. With his stomach continually tightening as if awaiting a hard smack on it, he didn’t need a navel-gazing book to tell him so. That there was no way out except to turn and face each other. And he was nauseous thinking what Sean would see.

Sighing silently, he signaled their server for another glass of Canadian ginger ale, drawing a frown from Ev. Which was ridiculous because the drink wasn’t even alcoholic, though maybe Ev thought it was. Making him wonder in passing whether Ev actually cared to see some shit, what a broken hearted mess and a horror show looked like.

Sipping his ginger ale and setting it down, he watched Ev’s eyes flick momentarily to the glass. Christ, it was also entirely possible that Ev had gotten word of his drunken tear last winter.

“You think I should have ordered something stronger, huh,” he said to Ev. “Maybe like a Long Island iced tea. Stuff married people drink.”

Ev smiled and said nothing.

Picking up his fork and resuming his dinner, he wondered absently how there could still be so much salmon left when already it felt like he had been eating for hours. Cutting up a chunk of salmon, he heaped some buttered asparagus on it, slipped the fork into his mouth.

At nights he had taken to praying, of all things. Like it was their first year all over again. To whatever god of love in charge of wayward gay men and had seen fit to push until he was standing next to Sean Jackson at a random fundraiser. To that entity he prayed for forgiveness. For so willfully and arrogantly fucking things up, to see fit to help him one big time to make things right.

But most of all he prayed that it would give Sean the right answers.

In the cold light of day, however, he knew there were no gods, no divine interventions. This was a problem of his own creation, which he would have to heal on his own.

He felt . . . lost. He needed Sean-levels of courage. But without Sean, he was lost.


	4. Chapter 4

The boat gently accelerated, cutting a diagonal swath across the dark water and arrowing for the far side of the coast. A vast beach house with lights everywhere their apparent destination. Sitting back, he watched the beach recede. Doing all he could to not look across to where Craig sat.

Having nodded his hellos as he’d settled in, the driver nodded back and Craig had said, “Hi.” Then Craig, relaxed against the hull with his arms on the boat’s rim, had proceeded to make no effort to hide the fact that he was scoping him. Dressed like him in a linen shirt, pants and canvas deck shoes, Craig looked especially relaxed for someone on whatever errand he’d been sent tonight. Same unabated eye contact, same enigmatic smile.

He’d since stopped wondering what exactly Craig was trying to see in looking so closely at him. And tonight’s scrutiny seemed especially observant. Perhaps to see how different he would be after the art show. Keeping his head turned away, he made sure Craig could see he harbored no interest, focusing instead on enjoying the night breeze. But in making the effort, he was suddenly being inundated with memories of Holden a year ago, in a similar boat but in an opposite state from his friend over there. Swooping in the whisk him from the media frenzy following the FRC so viciously upending his world.

Heart squeezing, he recalled Holden’s bloodless face, being before he’d discovered Holden’s fear of open water. Confused and disoriented, he only remembered climbing into the boat wondering what the hell Holden was doing in a speedboat in the middle of the ocean, dressed, though without his jacket, in his work clothes.

A lifetime ago, and still setting his heart on fire. Among the many confusing signals that was, and had always been, Holden Wilson to his brain.

Suddenly the boat gently, momentarily surged forward, rather sexily he had to say, drawing attention to the sight ahead of them.

The mansion on the coast curved into view, with a soundtrack of music on the night air. Beyoncé breathlessly planning on being someone’s naughty girl. Boats already dotted the water in front of the property, from which men were alighting and wading into the shallow water, their excitement audible and mingling with the music. Executing a neat arc, their driver smoothly brought them beachside, and soon they were stepping into the warm shallow water and joining arriving guests.

Gasps rose up around them as they were sighted, and within steps they were being swarmed by a mob of brightly dressed and . . . remarkably attractive men.

Well, Craig was, anyway. Slowly moving aside as their progress slowed, he gave the men small smiles but more access to Craig than him.

And then he watched, mesmerized despite himself, the facile manner in which Craig proceeded to return the attention. Taking his time hugging and kissing each man in turn, as though each were special. Reminding him of an MVP walking up to collect his trophy and thanking his reps and coaches along the way. Finding the little show hard to look away from, he just stared. 

Entitlement? Fuck, people didn’t even know until they met certain men. Holden never did anything like this, he thought, moving back a little farther. All this open touching and kissing. Only to have his thoughts abruptly slip.

Having already moved back, he blinked, disoriented. As if, having moved, he could nonetheless see himself still standing where he had been moments ago. Staring at Craig, and having the strangest deja vu of all time. 

Strange because he’d never seen a scene like this. Yet he felt certain he knew this feeling.

_What feeling?_

But in place of his thoughts was a sudden dead space.

Giving himself a mental shake, he took yet another step aside in the water, just so he could come back into himself. And he abruptly pulled his gaze from Craig.

A couple of guests smiled and said gentle hellos to him, and he pressed his lips and nodded back. Still swimming in the surreal sensation, he found himself turning to look up at the enormous beach house—bright white against the dark sky and even more beautiful up close.

Suddenly, he was thinking that maybe he shouldn’t have come.

—

Looking absently around the atrium again, he noticed once more the stare of the good-looking man several tables away, diagonally from them. The man had been casting him looks all evening.

He didn’t know the guy, who looked in his mid-forties, and at first eye contact he’d offered a perfunctory, tight-lipped smiled out of common courtesy that had yielded not even a polite smile back. A non-engagement that wasn’t helped that the man looked like the poster child for East Coast elite. All Ivy League looks and attitude. Call him West Coast judgmental, but he already couldn’t deal.

Since then he’d been ignoring the guy as best he could, and following the continued looks his way, was left wondering why some people couldn’t seem to get a clue.

—

At the bottom of the wooden staircase zippering the three decks of the house, they waited. He was behind Craig, waiting for a break in traffic in the men trailing up and down the stairs before they would begin their own ascent. Drinks in hand, chatting happily in their own worlds, guests called out delighted “Hi!”s as they passed.

He was looking up at the gleaming, whitewashed verandahs on a house that seemed transported from the American colonial South. Staring up at the small, colored lights, wrapped around the railings like love on arms and twinkling against the night sky, the surreal feeling returned. Familiarity in a place he had never been. Feeling drawn like a child being whispered the best parts of a story, barely audibly, making him strain to try and catch the words. 

He felt as though on the cusp of a revelation that would take his breath away. 

In this summer of shocks, it wasn’t the most comforting thought.

At a break came and Craig started up, him following. The party was being thrown by a Hollywood friend, Craig had said. But it wasn’t until they were standing on the middle deck and Bernal Arnaz was coming toward them that he felt himself softly, strangely, landing back into the present.

Bernal Arnaz, no relation to Desi, was an older Hispanic movie set decorator, whose IMDb credits left him, and the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, stirred. Living legend, openly gay, his nearest sighting of him had been at the previous year’s GLAAD Awards which Bernal had missed due to prior commitments.

At the time, imagining what he would say and tossing out the overly gushy ones about textures and patterns that would only make him look try-hard, he’d settled on complimenting him on his own personal favorites among his work. That, he’d concluded, would surely convey the authenticity of his admiration without coming off as too fannish.

When Bernal greeted them, however, he couldn’t speak.

Dark-skinned and of average height, salt-and-pepper bearded, and slightly pot-bellied, Bernal of the beautiful eyes and perpetually tolerant smile was a knockout of a looker. His pictures did him no justice. He stared almost outside of himself. He’d seen plenty of celebrities, even lived on the same street as some. But there were famous people and then there were legends.

Bernal and Craig exchanged kisses, cheek to cheek and unmistakably sensual, and when Craig pulled back and introduced him, he thought he was ready.

Instead, because of Blake’s, and KV’s party, and every other outlandish moment that had been the past weeks, he froze, his body tight. Realizing he was waiting for some awkwardness to occur.

Bernal merely touched his arm. “Oh, sweetie,” said tenderly. His voice in real life was just as he had imagined. “We were neighbors this entire time and I didn’t even know. I wish I could have been there for you.”

And staring down at the famous set decorator, he waited.

“Although, I’m sure Holden took very good care of you.”

Touched, he nodded his thanks. And still waited. But that appeared to be it. Thanking him once more, he blinked several times, then said, “I’m a huge fan of your work.” 

And could not believe he had gone with that.

Bernal stilled, staring at him. Then with a soft breath, and gently patting his throat, Bernal slid him a side-eyed look and said, “They warned me about those eyes, but would I listen.”

For long seconds he stood there wondering what eyes, and what about them. Then for the remainder of his time before Bernal Arnaz, he stood there pretending his ears weren’t on fire.

Bernal stared mellow brown eyes into him. “I swear that Holden is full of surprises.”

Bemused, Bernal turned back to Craig, patting his arm. “Get yourselves a drink. And find me if you have questions.” And with a wink, left them, on to his next arrivals.

Face turned away, he waited for it to cool. Wishing suddenly on six months’ salary that Holden were there. Arm around him, all confidence, assuring him he was doing great in unfamiliar waters, and that it was all spectacle anyway. 

But, no Holden.

Eyes on the deck now, he looked around. The party was themed—casual beachwear, guests dressed in loose linen like him and Craig or in T-shirts, swim trunks and colorful flip-flops—and boasted a very relaxed atmosphere to match. Everywhere across the expansive deck, catering staff in tight T-shirts and Bermuda shorts oversaw aromatic sizzling grills, smoothly carting trays whose contents were lowered and offered with smiles and unerring skill to delighted guests. It was strange, exciting to be in the home of Bernal Arnaz.

Still, something continued standing out. The party was filled with easily the most attractive men he had ever seen outside of photoshoots. Men of all varieties—tall, short, big, small, and with their colorful clothing, it was pure eye candy. Even to an extent that was noticeably different from any other party he’d spent the past few weeks being dragged to. He’d simply never seen a party like this.

Yet . . . the feeling of familiarity remained. 

Although since Craig had said neither Holden nor Elliot would be in attendance, but that Petey would, a combination of persons missing and present that didn’t exactly instill tranquility, maybe the entire evening just felt off.

No sooner thought, and after a server had appeared and presented them with a tray of alcohol-free cocktails, prompting a passing curiosity as to whether Craig had actually taken the initiative to inform Bernal of his drink preferences, than Petey appeared.

—

He had brought his attention back to their own table. And soon became aware that he was now just staring at Ev’s white hair, bent to his dinner of seared swordfish. Without looking up, Ev was saying something. This time he noticed. Focusing, he heard the question. And blinked at Ev.

“Cold feet?”

“Sure,” Ev said, in his swishy voice. “Just about everyone gets them. I did. Had I been able to book a flight straight to the farthest point from LA, that’s where I would have been three weeks to my wedding.”

“Ev, when you were getting married, they hadn’t invented airplanes. So I don’t believe you.”

Ev chuckled. “Oh, believe it. The best help really is to talk about it.”

Worried that he might not be outwardly projecting confidence, but also amused, he asked, “What makes you think I have cold feet?”

“You keep staring out the glass walls like a man looking for an escape.”

“Wait, did you just say _glass walls,_ like _that?_ I’m pretty sure that’s homophobic.”

Ev chuckled again, and opening his mouth to give Ev a proper answer, he stopped when East Coast raised his eyes to him once more. The most direct look of the evening. 

Nothing happened. East Coast just stared at him. And then lowering his eyes, it seemed the corner of his mouth pulled in a smile. And not because the woman with him had said anything, she was eating and not speaking. A diamond ring glittered on her finger as she cut her food.

He decided to look more carefully at his observer. No, he didn’t know the man from anywhere. When the staring had first started after they sat down, he’d thought perhaps it was Ev the man knew. But that would have brought him over as soon as they sat down. 

Putting it all from his mind, he looked at Ev, trying to remember what he’d been about to say. While he certainly didn’t go around thinking people were assholes, the opposite of his nature in fact, that guy was giving off asshole vibes big enough to down satellites.

“I was actually looking outside,” he corrected Ev, “because it’s a beautiful night and I’m wondering what Sean is up to. So you may tell Alastair and Cecelia that the wedding is still very much on.”

Ev laughed this time, dabbing his lips with his napkin. “Glad to hear it.”

He just shook his head, smiling. “I’m gonna report you to Lucy. She still thinks you’re a romantic, so I think she should know what’s happened to you. Not to mention that you almost bailed on her as a wedding present.”

Ev just laughed some more.

—

In keeping with the party’s casual theme, Petey was dressed in beach shorts, T-shirt and flip-flops and had no product holding up, down, or back his hair. A look which should have made him appear more wholesome and less siren, but which wasn’t the case at all.

He watched as Petey approached in his usual manner, circling behind Craig instead of coming directly toward him. Reaching behind, Craig attempted to take Petey’s hand for a touch or maybe a kiss. But Petey gracefully, effortlessly, sidestepped him and simply came to be standing on this side of Craig.

Glancing behind him in slight confusion, Craig then looked at where Petey had stopped. Then, eyes on Petey, lifted his glass and sipped.

Petey was stock still, staring at him and not looking at all at Craig. He seemed in his usual state of near core meltdown, but was somehow managing to maintain eye contact. Which he supposed was a vast improvement over frenetic eye avoidance.

Direct eye contact, apparently, for the purpose of gearing up to say something. Despite himself, he just stared at the two of them.

Craig should have been running interference, since Petey wasn’t exactly being subtle with his flushed face and a staccato blinking that had started up. Like he was being sent a Morse code message via blinking.

But Craig was merely watching Petey with a smile and nothing else. Not even displaying any embarrassment at having been shunned. Going by the look on Craig’s face, everything seemed to be going according to plan.

Rousing himself, Petey blinked softly, then turned ever so slightly toward Craig, and said, disdainfully, “You need to get downstairs. With your A game.”

It didn’t seem to be what Craig expected to hear. Frowning slightly, Craig turned and looked across the deck toward the staircase from which Petey had come.

Petey’s gaze had never left him, now turned docile. But since nothing about the guy struck him as pliant or submissive, his look only seemed to have gotten more loaded.

“Sean,” Petey said, seductively. “It’s so good to see you. I was hoping you would come tonight.”

Petey stilled, the blinking scattering. Then he seemed to be trying to determine how that might have sounded, not seeming to like the odds.

“Thanks,” he told him, shifting his eyes to Craig. God help him with Holden’s friends. Craig was still staring toward the staircase, at wherever downstairs was. And seemed to be suppressing curiosity.

Turning back to Petey, Craig gave him a narrow-eyed stare, as if searching for signs of duplicity. A scrutiny which Petey at first ignored. Then, like with a buzzing that wouldn’t go away, Petey casually turned to Craig. 

“You’re not going? Fine. But say I didn’t warn you, and I'll change my door code on you as a Christmas present.”

Craig blinked. Under different circumstances, he might have enjoyed this moment. He didn’t think he’d ever seen heightened emotion on Craig’s face, and right now Craig looked quite human and quite surprised. And again glanced at the staircase.

Petey had only taken his eyes off him for a second or so. Blinking out the remainder of his Morse message, Petey said softly, “Hope to see you later, Sean.” Then simply walked away.

For the life of him, he did not know how this worked. The guy was one of Holden’s closest friends. What was he thinking was going to happen? He just shook his head.

But Craig was still looking at the staircase. Then his expression softened, turning bemused. “Let’s go downstairs,” Craig said, and drink in hand, turned in that direction.

“I don’t think so.”

Craig stopped and turned back to him. Eyes still on him, friendly smile still in place. But something had subtly changed.

He immediately saw what it was— he was no longer being observed in a passive manner.

Yet he couldn’t say what this new look was either.

He stayed right where he was. 

Around them, colored lights rendered the deck a blue-red-and-gold paradise, complete with gentle sea breezes and the colorful men.

In stark contrast to the tension between them.

He didn’t know why Craig had brought him here. What kind of party this was. There was something different about everything, about the guests, and this pervasive atmosphere of intrigue he couldn’t put his finger on. Like it was a party for models or something, but not quite.

“What’s downstairs?”

“Same as up here,” Craig replied. “Downstairs is just better lighting.”

Seconds passed and he still had no idea what that meant.

Craig’s smile remained in place. Acting like a balm, the smile made him feel childish. And Craig was very good looking, so when smiling seemed benevolent. Still his instincts were telling him to tread carefully.

Craig waited.

But he wasn’t a child. If he wanted to know what was downstairs, he needed to take himself there and find out.


	5. Chapter 5

Downstairs was an indoor-outdoor detached floor of the house, ensconced under the deck and protruding toward the water like an open air nightclub. Mood lighting darkened the space, with eighties music playing at background decibels further isolating the space from the rest of the party.

Immediately, he noticed that here guests were seated peculiarly—not in groups as friends might, but in twos and threes with a handful of the beautiful men surrounding them. Giving a distinct impression that some guests were only there to pay attention to other guests. As if the latter were celebrity. It seemed odd.

They had come out onto the stone floor with his attention caught on the small circular couches by the entrance, so it took another moment to look up across the space— and get his attention staked.

At a large set of grills across the deck, a chef stood, loudly commanding the world. A chef whose videos he had spent many hours watching on YouTube. And whose distinct carrying voice, long body and signature top bun—like if Holden didn’t shower, shave, get haircuts, or give any kind of a fuck—were as unmistakable to him as if he had his eyes closed and was picturing him. Physical traits which were suddenly all he had to go by as just as they arrived, the hollering stopped and chef was being lip-locked by some guy.

Startled speechless, he had stopped moving altogether, starstruck for the second time that evening. Except this time in a slight inferno. Eventually chef broke the kiss, indicating apologetically at the grills, and as the guy dropped a light lip kiss and walked away, chef looked over at him, mouth dropping, and whipping his dripping hot grill fork up at him, screamed, _“You fuck!!!”_

Stupefied, he froze, having turned to stone.

And opening his mouth, in a rush of heat and adrenaline, to say God only knew what, he stumbled and blinked on feeling movement at his side, turning to see Craig making his way past him, toward chef.

“You walking, heartless, _dick!_ ” chef shrieked, an explosion of bright red where his face should be. “I’ve been _waiting_ to catch you unawares, you _cocksucking_ motherfucker! But now look at this, you here and I gotta be roasting fucking seaweed. _Goddammit!_ ”

By now Craig had reached chef, and apparently unconcerned by the vitriol, moved in close enough for their bodies to be touching, and leaned in close to chef’s ear. Obscured by chef’s incensed, Craig calmly began whispering.

And he watched his chef, the one he’d spent so many hours in his kitchen worshipping, begin moaning loudly enough for people in Mexico to hear. All while cycling annoyance, impatience, and obvious self-hate. “Don’t fucking _play_ me!” chef shouted, at someone who was right there. Craig only leaned in closer. Next thing, chef had wrapped an arm around Craig’s shoulder and was lip-locked for the second time in as many minutes. But this time in a more explicit version that left nothing for the imagination to do.

He found somewhere to sit.

He wasn’t sure for how long, until his heart rate slowed at least, he kept his arm along the low wall and his gaze down at the beach. Doing all he could amidst soft whistles and catcalls to not look over there and see his idol tarnished.

A server appeared with a small tray of paper-thin nori seaweed wraps, chef’s creations.

“Spiced with chef’s secret blend,” the server said softly, “drizzled with squid sauce and roasted over an open flame.” Offered with another glass of the nonalcoholic peppermint rosé he had already exhausted. Or would he prefer sake, warm and spiced? Nodding to all of it, the server smiled and deposited slabs of wood bearing the wraps, joining it with a hand painted ceramic sake set, before telling him he’d be back with his rosé.

No doubt the wraps would be astonishing, especially since he’d never actually eaten anything personally prepared by the guy, only food by proxy in a restaurant. Nonetheless he drank the sake first. Were he a drinker, now would be the time for several tossed back tequilas.

Setting down the empty sake cup on the small table anchoring their space, however, he drank no more. Hopefully the sake would quickly do its job, Craig would tire of whatever he had brought him here to prove, and he’d be back home early enough to decompress and just go to bed. Tonight was breezy and he’d happily take those swirling memories for company.

In moments he was being joined by a crop of the beautiful men. Filling up his little couch, they crowded in, leaned forward, smiling, congratulating him on his upcoming nuptials. Asking how arrangements were coming, to which he merely nodded, assuring him that Spain was in fact perfect and that destinations never failed to bring in the fun. There was laughter, spirited exchanges, warm smiles.

It took no time to recognize how different their presence felt to anything else he’d so far experienced being in Holden’s social circles. Certainly different from the party guests at KV’s, who hovered as if waiting to drink his blood, and from the overt, teeming air of the patrons at Blake’s.

All polite manners and accommodating smiles, these guests were . . . soothing somehow. Conveying a ton of warmth without hitting on him. Or not that he could tell anyway. In fact they gave no sense of having an agenda. And because they were all so attractive in such differing ways, it made for an uncanny, beguiling mood. Like getting massaged in a spa. It still didn’t explain anything, except that Bernal Arnaz seemed to have a very different set of acquaintances.

Seated back against the low wall, he glanced toward chef. At where Craig was still trying to extricate himself, just then trailing a finger along chef’s lower lip while chef tried to maintain his fury, ranting on, though in lower tones. Then Craig leaned forward and replaced his finger with his mouth, and he brought his eyes back to their table.

Craig joined him shortly after, flushed and disarrayed. A state so incongruent with him that he couldn’t help staring. But with a retracting smile and a hand passed through his hair, normalcy instantly resumed. The men with him stayed only slightly longer, then like a flock of birds of paradise, see-you-laters fluttering down at him, they all slowly rose and were soon gone. Craig gave him an almost self-conscious smile.

“ _Craaaaaig . . ._ ” It was chef, singing at them. _Baaaaabbyy . . ._ ” and he accepted, hotly, that chef was drunk. And not just drunk but fucking Craig. “Dunno how you do it, hot stuff, but you deserve a medal. You really doooo.”

Recognizing the tones, he could hardly believe it. He was about to witness chef get “famously furious” to some song lyric, snatches of recited literature, or, if they were especially lucky, his own crazy poetry.

Never had it occurred to him that chef too was human and might have things to say beyond the sanitized mainstream stuff he entertained audiences with on Good Morning America. It had never even vibed his gaydar that his very sexy, Cornell Hotel-schooled, oh-so-gifted cuisine chef was into men.

Now firmly in his own world, chef was poking and turning at the three grills surrounding him. “Was gonna murder you tonight,” chef sang. “Really waaaas. ’Stead here I am, dreamin’ ‘bout the next time. I know you don’t love a ho, but every last one of us hoes loves you back. We really dooo. _And_ I’m not allowed to go over there and say hi to Sean Jackson? And here I was thinking I’d get a chance with him tonight. Who but you, baby, who but you. Scared of you. Your boy Holden? Shredded me.” A giant flame roared and subsided from the front grill. “So whaddyay say, hot stuff, whadday say. Fuck me, suck me? Pff! _Duck_ me.” Chef smoothly turned, flipping at his creations on all three grills like a gunslinger at a shootout, flared another giant flame from the center grill, and snapped his finger on his free hand. “Whoa,” he said, as if just noticing the grills. “This shit is done.”

Shouts of catcalls, whistles and applause. Chef was ultra famous for a reason.

Craig might have, but he didn’t look over there. Enough had died already with chef tonight.

Sweeping a look around their surroundings, the oddly grouped guests and the uniformly attractive men, he thought _Fuck this._ Something _was_ off about tonight, and while he knew he had some difficult decisions to make, he didn’t appreciate being condescended to.

Turning to Craig, he said softly across the space. “What is all this? This party? It’s different somehow.”

“It’s an escort party.”

Minutes later, he still hadn’t spoken.

“Why the fuck am I here?” he finally asked, when he could make his voice work again.

“I thought you should know what it is you want to judge. Get a real sense of things instead of basing it all on a gut feeling.”

He stared at Craig, unable to decipher words that were clearly meant to have meaning for him. From someone who couldn’t possibly know anything about him, talk less of what he needed.

“And the last few weeks just weren’t enough?”

“Not quite. Otherwise we wouldn’t be here.”

His heart was going so hard he was surprised Craig wasn’t staring at his throat. But for that, Craig would have to be looking at him. Craig wasn’t. A couple of men had arrived at Craig’s couch, lowering themselves on either side of him so that soon all three of them were glued together, and Craig had turned his attention to them.

Men whose appeal now seemed so obvious that _backwater_ didn’t quite cover his social shortcomings. Glowing smiles, absorption without pressure, gathered to sit and listen to you carry on importantly in a way that made you feel special. And this had mystified him just minutes ago.

He turned away and lowered his gaze to the beach, to the tiki torches and the men down there. Watching them emerge from the water fully clothed—T-shirts and shorts plastered to their bodies, laughing and pushing hair from their eyes in a way that was nothing short of hypnotizing.

Like models in a photoshoot, his mind had been telling him. And he still hadn’t gotten it. _He_ hadn’t gotten it. Why, because of the context? Because in his experience it had never been this overt? Because it had been so many years? Or was he just the most naive person who ever lived. No wonder it had been so easy for Holden to . . . _handle_ him.

Turning away, even from the beach, he came back to their table, pretending interest in their food. Feeling even more powerfully that he was back at the bottom of the staircase, pausing to listen— to something. On the cusp of hearing the rest of a whispered story.

It was a sensation so strong it left him nearly breathless. But what the hell more could there be.

Or . . . did Craig know something? Sussed out about his experiences in the league—like that Dahlia executive.

Could it even be a veiled move from the Liniker camp? To show him that no matter what he thought, how far he’d run, they could still always snap a finger and reel him in?

No, of course not. Those were two separate worlds. No matter the extent of investigating Cecelia had done for that Forbes article, or even if she had distributed a dossier on him, there were things that couldn’t be uncovered. Just as no matter how connected the powers that be in that shadow world of the league, the two worlds had no interests in common and did not intersect.

This was all coincidence. A night like this— it was just what these rich LA gay men did. Somewhere in there he remembered Holden glossing over a club in Chicago. Although hearing about it and sitting there was like being told about water versus getting a bucket of it splashed in the face.

Everything in him was telling him to get up and leave.

Instead, he slowly sat back. Watched Craig, waiting to see what might happen next.

Not a thing happened. But it did occur to him, quite suddenly, that if Petey showed up then, and perhaps specifically on that deck, he might need an actual escape plan, and he covertly located the exits.

—

Now the man at the other table was having a visitor. A man in a three-piece suit, whom East Coast stood up to greet. The suited man had come from the other side of the atrium, yet East Coast had glanced his way again in standing up to greet him. Shaking hands, East Cost indicated toward his dinner companion, whom the newcomer greeted with a brief kiss on the cheek.

And he was looking because the newcomer, he did seem to know. Though only vaguely recognizing him. And only catching faint whispers of their exchange, he had not much else to place him.

He lowered his head back down to his plate, not liking the vibes from either of them at all.

—

Petey didn’t show up on the deck. And he didn’t immediately leave.

In fact he stayed a couple more hours, not saying no even when their server brought more sake. Stayed well into the shelf life of any comfort from the sake or the peppermint rosé and well into the demise of their nori wraps. Which were of course delicious and emotionally difficult to eat. And call him cowardly all day, but he didn’t so much as look _over there_ again except once. Okay more than once, but only to check that he wasn’t about being ambushed.

But based on whatever Craig had negotiated, chef kept his distance and offered no more tactless callouts for a one-night stand.

Why had it never occurred to him what it might actually be like to meet these men—Bernal who had looked at him like a youngster out of his depth, and chef who hadn’t bothered looking at him at all. And though common sense was telling him there was nothing unusual about Holden knowing both these men, since they all probably moved in the same philanthropy circles, it stood no match to the continued shock to his heart of hearing Holden’s name so casually from their lips.

Was this going to be his life in LA now?

What the fuck was he doing here expect getting a final nail in the coffin of not belonging in Holden’s world. What was Craig’s fucking game?

Soon, his own visitors returned, perhaps taking silent cues from Craig who’d long since all but physically left him. Smiling, filling up his couch, and eager to start up conversation, his attendants seemed on rotation duty. Quietly refreshing themselves around him as if the right combination would unlock his words. To his near disbelief, they even had his laughing a little when they somehow found a couple guys at the party who were fellow Iowans. He nodded in conceding thanks, trying to smile. And was soon listening to the conversation around him. 

Admittedly great conversation. Everything from food talk to football, to even the ones who shared his college major amusing him by trying to recall social theories. But it was the conversation from his fellow state natives that unexpectedly touched him. Barn cookouts were legitimate Midwestern memories, but outside of the league, he had never sat with men who could share stories of the _other_ things they would do to each other up in the haylofts afterwards.

It was disorienting, even after a year of being publicly out. To be in LA, at a party, and without trepidation, talking about things like this. Were he in a better frame of mind, these were memories and experiences that might have been among his best to reclaim.

It was like being in a dream all right. Sitting with them, taking and posting Instagram shots with these men who couldn’t possibly know what strange affinity, however slight, he felt forward them. Nearly two hours in and he was still trying not to stare, knowing what they were. It was one thing to be young and oblivious, or suddenly finding yourself somewhere you’d had little choice in arriving at. But these men were here by choice. Some of them even married and in stable relationships. Continually, he was pulling himself back from trying to understand how they could be doing this.

Having delivered on his mandate, though, Craig didn’t so much as look his way again. A polite way of saying, was ignoring him. Chilled on the couch opposite, Craig was having himself a wonderful, whispery, touchy-feely night. The main story to the prologue on the beach.

Holden never did anything like this, he thought again reproachfully. Mouth to mouth, body to body like this in public. Live and so warm, _he_ could feel the heat.

No sooner had the thought cleared his mind than—as neatly as blowing on a dusty old book—the rest of the story simply revealed itself.

Was he an idiot or something? Of course Holden did. This was what Holden had been doing for three years while he’d sat in airport lounges. Agonizing over whether to text him for the fifth time that day. Whether that would come off too clingy.

This was reality while coming off snowy fields after a bad game and thinking that in LA it would be warm, and with Holden it would be even warmer. Then, back in LA, while right across the water from there labeling mason jars of baking ingredients and thinking he was taking charge of his relationship.

This had been Holden’s touchy-feeling evenings while he had been deluding himself it wasn’t happening. Or that if it was, it wasn’t love. And if it wasn’t love then it couldn’t hurt them. His truly genius approach to reality.

All this time listening to Holden, unaware he’d been doing it, he’d been seeing everything through the lens Holden had fashioned for him. Those men he had wished to see as no more than impostors, with their limited function in their love, had appeared as exactly as Holden had framed them: cutouts. No more animated than cardboard bodies roving across his vision. When Holden described their presence across a dinner table, skipping descriptions of taking them home like closing the door on an innocent mind, he had dutifully shut his imagination in synchronicity.

Not once had he stepped back and seen Holden with them, in the water, arriving at this party, sitting here on this balcony with them. As he was seeing Craig now.

Here were the missing scenes from the three years of his relationship. Like the missing scenes from a movie.

But the movie was finally complete. The whispered story ended.

He’d been distressed thinking he didn’t understand Holden. But the joke was much bigger than that. With Holden, he had never even lived in reality.

And glancing under his lashes across their space, he realized that this was what Craig had brought him here to see.

—

Roaming the speedboat across the dark water in long, sidewinding curves, as if serenading them under the moonlight, their driver brought them back east from the big house on the shore.

Bernal had found them before they left, kissing him on both cheeks and telling him to extend his kisses to Holden. He’d promised he would, by then able to soberly thank him for having him in his home. Chef had been drunk downstairs, allowing them to more or less sneak off the balcony without incident. Petey had never shown up on the deck, nowhere to be seen.

How often had he looked out his kitchen window and wondered at the lights across the water. Well, now he knew. Now it too was part of his life in LA. His life with Holden.

At the beachfront, the driver pulled up and waited as Craig disembarked and walked him onshore to his house. Like they were on a date or something. At the beach’s edge, where the waiter always seemed wettest, touching the light brown Malibu sand with caring attention, they halted.

From there he could look up and see his bedroom lights, fuzzy behind the sheer blinds that always froze Holden at the door. He lowered his gaze to the sand. Sometimes he could laugh, thinking of the things that bothered Holden that were never what he, as “a romantic” expected. The things that the movies and books told him should have Holden clinging, arousing him, never coming to pass, and the things that left him wondering what the fuck driving Holden tightly up against him.

Under the harsh white security lights, meanwhile, Craig looked effortlessly handsome. Showing no wear or tear from his eventful night. He couldn’t help doing a quick pass to see if Craig had in fact intentionally taken him to that party.

But of course not, he reminded himself. This wasn’t about him. This was about gatekeeping Holden’s interests.

Suddenly he didn’t want this inevitable conversation.

He did have questions for Craig, but they sat like lead bars in his stomach. Worse when he contemplated the possible answers. While Craig had always seemed like the one among Holden’s crew he might possibly be able to tolerate, he had never let slip Alvarez’s assessment of the guy. And he supposed tonight he’d seen a bit of that man-eater reputation for himself.

There was no question why, of all the Wilson patrol, Alastair had selected Craig to be his chaperon—over Holden’s nonsexual boyfriend Elliot, or Petey who was an actual director at the organization running this fucked show. A decision even Holden had deferred to when Holden made a point of fighting everything his father wanted.

Because they all knew who, when things got down to the wire, wouldn’t hesitate to hold down the fort.

Hands in his pockets, Craig was staring out at the water. Clearly giving him time to gather his thoughts. 

Then Craig turned to him. “Do you have any questions for me, Sean?”

“I sure don’t.”

Craig smiled, looking very amused. Then Craig turned and stared out at the dark water again, with an expression like someone about to engage in a conversation that was not only beneath him, but which no adult should have to find themselves having.

Turning back to him, Craig then said what he’d evidently come off the boat to tell him. Speaking in a slightly hurried pace.

“Look, I don’t think either of us is unclear as to why Alastair had me call you up for breakfast the morning before all this started. Holden isn’t from a family of shrinking violets, and if you two have been dancing around this issue for four years, then I think as of tonight you’ve seen everything you need to address whatever concerns you have.” Pausing, Craig then said, “That is, before you go stand at a very public ceremony bearing the Wilson family name.”

There it was. Alastair’s message to Sean Jackson.

“I hope you understand me.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Eyes on the sand, he said nothing more. Only appreciating more each day why Holden had wanted so much to keep his family out of their lives.

Well, too late for elopement now. Too late for many things.

“Okay,” Craig said. “See you Sunday then.”

He raised his eyes to him. Apparently he would.

Craig smiled at him. His old smile. Like on the morning of their breakfast. And now understood what this particular smile was all about. As if Craig simply, politely, considered him a curiosity.

Done for the night, he simply turned and started up to his house, saying good night over his shoulder. He didn’t watch as Craig headed back out to the water.

—

“Sean is a fine young man.”

“You think so?”

“I do. And a fortunate one. I’m sure you’ll make him very happy, Holden.”

His heart had stared beating before he knew what was happening, wanting to ask Ev how could know, how were such things guaranteed. Ev and Lucy had been married since the days of George Washington, practically, so maybe he could ask Ev questions that might help? All those questions he was too ashamed to ask Anne and Wil or even Kay. And couldn’t ask his own parents.

But he shouldn’t ask Ev, so as not to give the wrong impression. Right?

“How do you know I'll make him happy?”

Ev smiled, not at him but at his plate. In the way old people generally gave young people the least amount of attention necessary to attend to them. He waited, Ev not immediately answering.

“Do you remember our first meeting?” Ev asked.

“Yes,” he said without hesitation, the memory as fresh as any other. “My dad took me to Gradient and you came out of your office and took me on a tour. You were already old as dirt, and you gave me a lollipop. Even though I was fourteen.”

Ev was smiling, listening. “All true. Though now in my seventies, I remember fifty a little differently than you portray.” Ev paused, lifting a finger off his knife. “Every client’s kid we’d walk through the offices would either look bored to tears or ask where the lounge was, to go await their parents. You remember what you did?”

He sat in thought, and came up with nothing specific. “No. I mean, I don’t remember doing anything. I just followed you around until the tour ended.”

Ev made a barely audible sound, nodding to himself. “Normally the tour was brief, straightforward. Reception, client meeting rooms, conference rooms, the like. Ten minutes, tops. Well, it took us two hours to complete.”

He stared at Ev, waiting, because Ev paused again, and he could sweat he could hear his life and time itself grinding past.

“Because . . .?” he finally prompted.

“Because you stopped to talk to every single one of our staff. Every one. You asked about their husbands and wives, about their kids, about their homes.” Another pause. “You were fourteen.”

After an extended silence, he asked, “What was I supposed to talk to them about?”

Ev’s smile widened. But Ev said nothing more after that. When it sank it that they were apparently done, he resumed eating as well. Left to consolidate things maybe later in the shower, like he was Sean Jackson.

“I look forward to you bringing him into my office,” Ev said a little later, quite out of the blue.

“Don’t be weird, Everett Nielsen.”

Ev laughed, like a grandpa who’d hidden Santa’s toys from the grandkids and couldn’t wait to see the havoc unfold.

He just shook his head, concentrating on actually getting some food in him. Feeling better, and realizing that besides some gross eel, he hadn’t eaten much all day. He ignored the fact that East Coast over there, now ordering desert, was still sending him long, lingering looks. 

And suddenly, he remembered the identity of the suited man who had stopped by earlier. Wesley Young. Worked at Oliver’s concierge company. Organized “exclusive” parties for closeted famous types. 

Not really his scene. Something Wesley or anyone at their company would have known. So not quite explaining why he was being stared at all night.

Still he showed no reaction one way or the other. Not with that man’s eyes on him.

—

_You seen Kev Bendis lately?_

Stripped down to his underwear, about to go to bed, it was one thousand percent not the kind of nastiness he wished to see. On his phone or otherwise. What the fuck was up with messed up ghosts from the past popping into view all at once. To be honest with himself, he’d been checking for messages from Holden.

 _Why would you even ask that?_ he texted Jonah Wright back. Not in the group chat, he noted.

An emoji of a black guy shrugging. _Heard he was in LA for a couple days._

_Nothing to do with me._

Jonah Wright a-okayed him with a thumbs-up.

He deleted the entire chat. Left his phone in his bathroom.

Returning to bed, he climbed in. Laying on his side, yes, and with his arm still around himself. But this time imagining it was his guy. Kissing his face and whispering he loved him. That all the bogeymen of the past were harmless against the shield he would always put around him— protect him.

Even against his own breaches of trust and intimacy.

He had always been very self-disciplined. It was what had gotten him to where he was and who he was in life. But that night, he dug bruises into himself trying not to call Holden Wilson and asking him to come love him.

•


End file.
